Dog

Æsop. (Sixth century B.C.) Fables.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.

The Fox, the Cock, and the Dog


ONE moonlight night a Fox was prowling about a farmer’s hencoop, and saw a Cock roosting high up beyond his reach. “Good news, good news!” he cried.

“Why, what is that?” said the Cock.

“King Lion has declared a universal truce. No beast may hurt a bird henceforth, but all shall dwell together in brotherly friendship.”

“Why, that is good news,” said the Cock; “and there I see some one coming, with whom we can share the good tidings.” And so saying he craned his neck forward and looked afar off.

“What is it you see?” said the Fox.

“It is only my master’s Dog that is coming towards us. What, going so soon?” he continued, as the Fox began to turn away as soon as he had heard the news. “Will you not stop and congratulate the Dog on the reign of universal peace?”

“I would gladly do so,” said the Fox, “but I fear he may not have heard of King Lion’s decree.”

“CUNNING OFTEN OUTWITS ITSELF.”

I once had a dog. He was a border collie named »Nip«. He loved to herd anything: sheep, cows, small children, you name it. Once he got bitten by a rattlesnake. His head swelled up like a football for a couple of days, but he was right as rain after that.

Vidalia in his pocket, Frank Leigh Deary walks on down the Lost Highway. If the dust weren't so thick, he'd hum. But the Highway's full of dust today. His mother would have said, today is
dry as an old bone buried in the junkyard.
It is a dog day.

Frank Leigh Deary daydreams harmonicas, wiggles
his fingers over imagined gap-toothed instruments,
wishes for a partner with a ukelele.

Dog is man's best friend. But some dogs bite the hand that feeds them. These are presumably ungrateful dogs. Bad luck 'dogs' the unlucky. But if you're lucky, you're a lucky dog!

There is a book called 'Man bites dog', which is probably closer to the truth than dog bites man.

One of the most interesting features in »Wallace & Gromit« is the special kind of understatement of Gromit, the dog. Nobody knows his genius at all. Even the music seems to believe this when playing the melody of »How much is that dog there in the window?«.

A few nights ago wakefield and i saw a ghost dog.
I wouldn't have noticed him because it was dark and he was pretty still.
wakefield saw him and showed him to me.
He very calmy looked right into our souls.
Wakefield sat down and didn't make a sound.
The ghost dog was a beautiful male yellow cur.
After a short time he looked away and walked out of the yard.
Wakefield looked at me and we went home.

Dogs are not existentialists. They do not just live for the moment. Anyone who has ever walked a dog knows this. A true existentialist does not save up his urine for distribution around the neighborhood.

From our language it seems we have mixed feelings about dogs. Someone who sticks stubbornly to a task is dogged and someone who doesn't do his share of the work is dogging it. We say admiringly to the rake, »You dog, you,« but when Big Mama Thornton says, »You ain't nothing but a hound dog,« she is disapproving.

Are dog people inherently more selfish than cat people, craving constant attention and unquestioning love? Or is it, perhaps, the the other way around.

My particular unbiased opinion of the man on the street is that cats make me feel intelligent... superior. Not to mention relaxed and loved. But then again, love can be pretty selfish too... maybe the only truth is in being relaxed.